Snacking
by or.is.it
Summary: In which Sherlock puts his nose where it doesn't belong and John finds out why. There's also tea, whipped cream and a bit of slash.


**Breakfast**

Yawning, John checked the kettle. He had learned to exercise caution in the kitchen. There was something blue in there, blue and fluorescent. He set it back and looked for a clean pot. There was none. Every pot they owned was caked with the residue of one of Sherlock's experiments: the kind that came with weird chemistry and human body parts and the new kind of experiment that he had started running when John had mentioned that it would be nice to eat a home-cooked meal once in a while. Sighing, he picked a pot with contents that looked non-lethal and excavated some lab equipment from the sink. He didn't mind being the one who did the dishes nine times out of ten, but doing them before he had his morning tea was altogether a different matter.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, computer in his lap. "I made tea," John announced as he sat in the chair, steaming cup in hand.

"Who's Fiona?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

Taking a sip, John tried to find some context in which that question would make sense. Talking to Sherlock could be tricky that way, like you only heard half of the conversation, while everything else happened in Sherlock's mind. It sometimes reminded him of talking to his mother, where he had long ago given up on asking questions and just nodded along patiently.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he stated matter-of-factly.

"'My dearest John," Sherlock started reading from the screen in a voice that John assumed was meant to be seductive. "Thank you for everything you did for me. It was so lovely to reconnect after all this time, you made me very happy. Your flowers are standing next to my bed and every time I look at them I think of you and smile. I hope I'll soon see you again. Love, Fiona.'

"Who's Fiona? And what did you do for her to make her so… happy?"

"What…?" John frowned. "Are you reading my e-mails? Again?" Angry, he slammed the computer shut and snatched it up from Sherlock. He briefly considered storming out the front door, but as he was still in his bath robe, he opted for a dignified retreat up the stairs instead.

**Lunch**

"So, you didn't tell him about Fiona?"

John looked up from his sandwich. "No, of course not. I'm not going to reward his impossible behaviour."

The woman across the table chuckled. "Do you really think that leaving him to puzzle it out himself is some sort of punishment? We are still talking about Sherlock here, right?"

John scowled. "It's not just the mails, you know? Last week I went to see a movie with a friend from med school. Sherlock turns up five minutes into the movie and keeps taking that thing apart until all three of us are kicked out of the cinema!

"I thought it was just boredom. But last Monday I had lunch with a young army doctor who's just about to ship out and was looking for some advice. I didn't tell Sherlock where I was going, but sure enough, he turns up. In the middle of a case, he takes the time to follow me! Analyzed the hell out of that poor kid, she was thoroughly spooked. I'm surprised he hasn't shown up here to ruin our lunch yet." John looked around, half expecting to see a curly head of hair over a long black coat.

"And you have no idea why he acts like that?" Clara asked, a smile playing on her lips.

"Because he can. Because he likes to be annoying. Because he's Sherlock."

Her smile deepened. "You really can be adorably naïve, John," she said. "Sometimes it's hard to believe you and Harry are related." Her face grew serious and she put her hand on John's. "He's stalking you because he's jealous."

John stared at her blankly. "Jealous? Why would he be jealous?"

**Dinner**

He stared at the empty chair across the table and checked his watch. The worst that could happen, he thought, taking a sip of wine, was that he had to cancel the meal and walk out of the restaurant alone, under the haunting stares of the other patrons and that judgemental waiter. It would be unpleasant, but it's not like he was never stood up before.

He stared at the chair again. No, he thought. No. The worst thing that could happen was that Sherlock would show up and the entire evening would end in disaster. An embarrassing disaster that might bring an end to their friendship. He poured himself some more wine. Ten more minutes, he decided. He would wait ten more minutes before he declared this date an official failure.

Just as he poured himself another glass, a familiar face came swooping out of nowhere and the chair was suddenly no longer empty.

"John!" Sherlock said with a mischievous smile. "What a surprise to see you here. Didn't you want to take your date to Cecconi's." He poured himself a glass of wine. "Speaking of which, where is the lovely Fiona? I was so looking forward to meet her."

John kept his face carefully blank. "Which is why you came here instead of where I told you we'd be."

Sherlock pretended to be hurt. "Please John. You didn't really think you would fool me with that little story, did you?"

John smiled and took another drink. "No, Sherlock. I did not."

"Why, John," Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow, "are you telling me you were planning for me to come here?" He gave John an intense stare. "But why? Why would you want me to interrupt your date?" He put his index finger to his lips. "Is it that Fiona was too much for you and you were trying to scare her off by introducing her to your crazy housemate?"

John returned Sherlock's stare. "Fiona is my godmother. She is 68 and just had her hip replaced. I talked to her orthopaedist and helped her find a good rehabilitation facility."

Sherlock smiled and took a slow sip of his drink. "Is that so? Well, then there's only one reason why you'd want me to come here tonight."

John kept his face carefully blank, waiting for an explanation. When none came, he asked "And what would that be?"

Sherlock reached across the table and pulled John toward him. "This," he said and kissed him.

**Midnight Snack**

"I can't believe you're hungry again," Sherlock said, absentmindedly stroking the scar on John's shoulder, "after that giant monkfish you had."

"Not really hungry," John replied, playfully parting Sherlocks lips to push a grape in his mouth, "just a little peckish."

"Peckishness," Sherlock said, chewing "is a ridiculous notion. Either your body requires nutrition or it doesn't. And after the dinner you had, I'm guessing yours doesn't"

"In that case," John smiled mischievously, "we must find some better use for this." He bent down from the couch, leading Sherlock to nibble at his butt. "Now where did I put the whipped cream…?"


End file.
